And after much mutual grumbling, we both got out of bed. Ollie, my knight in shining armor, ran down the street and came home with a bagel, a large Gatorade, and a liter of water. Still drunk, I barely managed to change into an acceptable outfit and brush my teeth. After housing the food-and I mean housing, to an extremely embarrassing level I'm sure I'll lament later when the vodka shots have fully worn off-I threw on the most oversized sunglasses I own, and I somehow managed to get to Lincoln Center to meet the other assistants for another full day of fashion.

Blythe arrived like a golden goddess, hardly even puffy, because, of course. But I didn't even care because in her hands was a venti caramel macchiato with an extra pump of caramel-she figured I'd need the sugar and the caffeine. Both true. Both making me wonder if Blythe actually was my new best friend. Against all odds, I managed to stay awake for the first two shows-I may or may not have been seeing double. Rebecca and Isabel covered when I passed out backstage behind a rack of voluminous couture dresses about three hours later, waking me up after twenty minutes so we could hustle to the next runway. My notes were illegible scribbles. I forgot words. Not how to spell them, just words in general. No speaking or writing or thinking really. Nothing besides, ow, ow, pain, ow, please dear god when will it end, ow. Sometime in the afternoon, when the hangover really kicked in, I started popping painkillers like a drug addict. And then miraculously, between the blinding headache, the killer migraine, and the general self-loathing, I survived the day.

Only to have the punishment continue.

Because when I walk through the front door of my apartment building, dreaming of my bed, guess who's already waiting for the elevator?

Bridge.

Grinning like an idiot.

Floating on cloud nine.

Blissfully in love.

Of course, as soon as she sees me, the smile fades. A frown passes over her lips as her brows come together, and she winces ever so slightly. Just yesterday, I was confused by that subtly guilty expression, totally unaware why Bridge of all people would feel ashamed when I was the one lying to her, I was the one pretending to date someone she hated, I was the one knowingly disappointing my best friend. But now the veil has lifted. Bridge isn't nearly as innocent as she seems, and I'm more than grumpy enough to take advantage of that fact.

I mean, she is sort of the reason why I'm in the state that I am. If she'd never been there with Patrick, I'd never have gone out and gotten sloppy drunk with Blythe, and I never would have been fighting this mega-hangover all day.

She's totally earned my wrath.

"Hi," I say, as loudly as I can with my head still a general bubble of pain.

Bridge shifts her weight back and forth as I step onto the elevator. "Hey."

"So," I chirp, turning to her. For the first time in weeks, I have Bridge cornered, and there's no way I'm letting her off the hook. Not a chance. Before, I was too consumed by my own guilty conscience to force a conversation, but now? I'm over it. Let the interrogation begin. "Ollie told me you were away on a business trip this weekend, how'd it go?"

She swallows, staring down at her hands, fiddling with her thumbs. "Fine."

"Where were you?" I press.

Bridge tosses her red curls over her shoulder, shrugging, as a practiced lie rolls smoothly off her lips. "Just at an art show. My boss wanted me to check out some new artists she's thinking of bringing into the gallery."

Nicely done, Bridge.

I almost believe you.

Except, well, I saw your tongue down my ex-boyfriend's throat, so...

"What kind of art?" I question, trying to keep the accusation from my tone.

But I should have known that my best friend of nearly twenty years would pick up on the not quite innocent sound of my voice. Her green eyes stare directly into mine, subtly accepting the challenge. "Mostly modern, not your style. Though one guy was more of a new-revival impressionist, you would have liked his work."

"What's his name?"

"Juan Ortiz."

"What sort of scenes does he paint?"

"Well, he was born in Mexico, so some tropical scenes, though I'm mostly drawn to his portraits of local life. They're subtly political and incredibly poignant. New York would be a great market for him."

"How old is he?"

"Pretty young actually, around our age, he's very up and coming in the scene right now."

Damn. She's good.

Way better than me, obviously, seeing as I've run out of questions. The conversation lapses into a stilted silence as I try to figure out my next plan of attack-you know, something a little subtler than, I saw you with Patrick last night you backstabbing fiend!

Yes, fiend.

Because although slightly pirate-ish, I find it completely appropriate. And secretly, I've always wanted to use it in a real life conversation.

Bridge cuts me to the chase, using a classic method of diversion-polite small talk-and asks, "How's fashion week?"

Alas, fiend will have to wait.

I swallow the word and the simmering anger back down, trying to sound casual. "Great, actually, the girls have been helping me a lot. After spending so much time with them, we've sort of become friends." Her eyes widen just slightly, surprised, but I haven't even gotten to the best part yet. "Blythe and I even went out clubbing last night."

Bridge starts choking on air.

Like actually convulsing.

I try not to smile too devilishly while I twist the knife a little further. "You know, she has so many connections. We got into the VIP section at this place downtown. Blythe knew the DJ so we were dancing with him for a while, and then we jumped on top of the bar. Oh my gosh, you would've died. A bouncer had to carry both of us out! I mean, can you believe that? I, Skylar Quinn, the near definition of a goody-two-shoes, got kicked out of a club."

Bridge is grinning from ear to ear, but there's something else in her eyes, a little bit of nostalgia, the slight wish that she'd been there to see it-because she's been there to see everything else. Last night might be the first real crazy story I have that didn't include Bridge. Yet for some reason, that thought makes me sad, not excited or vindicated or satisfied in the slightest.

"Sounds fun," she says, yet her tone is anything but.

I bite my tongue, following her to the apartment because all the grumpy rage I had is slowly whittling away. I can't really be mad at her, can I? When I've been lying too? When I've been going behind her back? Is a brother that much different than an ex-boyfriend?

I mean, sort of.

Well, yes, a lot different actually.

I've kissed Patrick. I've been in his bed. I've seen his, you know. And I don't want to do any of those things again. I love Ollie, but that doesn't make it any less bizarre. I guess, I just-I mean, she isn't doing this to hurt me, right? Is she so upset about my fake relationship with John that she ran to the one guy she knew I wouldn't want her to date? The one guy she knew would sting?

I'm about to break down and confess that I saw her on Saturday when her phone rings. Immediately, anticipation flashes across her face, brightening her eyes, transforming her entire expression as she eagerly reaches for her cell.

My rage returns.

Oblivious, Bridge texts Patrick back, fervently flying her fingers over the screen. But all I see is the two of them back in that hot tub, all I see is how easily she ran across that patio, not sparing even the slightest second to consider my feelings, all I see is the two of them wrapped in each other's arms. And I know I don't really have the most morally superior ground to stand on, but at the moment, I just don't care.

All I want to do is make Bridge as uncomfortable as I am.

"So, you never told me, how did things work out with Patrick?" I ask as nonchalantly as possible.

Bridge inhales sharply, squishing the phone to her chest as her eyes go wide. "What?"

Was I this obvious about Ollie? No wonder Bridge called me out. I mean, the secret is practically written in capital letters across her forehead. Biting my tongue, I shrug out of my coat and collapse onto the couch, letting her moment of panic linger as I feign innocence. "You were helping him with a present for his parents, right? Did you ever see him again? Did he ever buy something?"

All the breath leaves her body as her shoulders relax. "Oh, that, um, he stopped by the shop again and bought a piece for them."

I cross my ankles on the coffee table. "Did he ask about me at all?"

"No." Bridge swallows, turning away to take off her coat and hang it in the closet. But I know what she's really doing-going out of her way not to look me in the eyes. "He, um, didn't really stick around too long that second time. Just a quick stop to pick up the painting he liked, we hardly spoke."

"Interesting," I comment, letting the word stretch out like an entire sentence. "Blythe was telling me he's seemed happier recently, she thinks he maybe started dating someone new. We were talking about it yesterday."

"Oh?" Bridge's tone is suspiciously high pitched. "Well that's good, right? Since you're with John, and now Patrick's moving on too?"

"Sure," I say. And then all of a sudden, I see an opening, a chance to make Bridge feel just as heart achingly guilty as I've felt these past few weeks, an opportunity to give her a taste of her own medicine-to see how it feels to lie to a friend who you think truly doesn't deserve it. Because as long as she believes I'm dating John, a total jerk whom I know she hates, part of her will always feel a little justified in lying to me and dating my ex. So, I'm stripping her safety net away. "But, actually, I've been meaning to tell you I broke things off with John. You haven't really been around, so I haven't had the chance to say anything until now."

"You did?" she blurts, jerking her entire body around to face me. "When?"

"Pretty soon after our double date, actually," I reply, a little proud to note my voice sounds utterly normal, though maybe it's because in an odd way I'm sort of telling the truth.

"Why?" she asks, not computing. Her brows pull together as alarm washes over her features, turning them harsh and upset.

My best friend is starting to squirm. And I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. Because thinking back on that double date, I remember how mean she was to me. What if I had really gotten back together with John? What if I had truly cared about him? Just because she didn't approve, she stopped talking to me and ran into the arms of my ex-I mean, is that how a best friend should act? I was too wrapped up in my own guilt to realize it that night, but now everything is suddenly clear. I mean, she stopped talking to me. She roped me into a double date just to try to tear me apart from someone she thought I might care about. And when things didn't go her way, she completely shut me out. I mean, is that what she's going to do with Ollie if she doesn't like the idea of us being together? Make me choose between them, force me to pick sides, behave like a two-year-old who didn't get her way instead of a woman who cares about her best friend's heart?

I'm not even thinking about Bridge and Patrick anymore. I'm thinking of the two of us. Of our friendship. Of how she so easily cut me out. And I'm hurt and annoyed and, let's face it, pissed off that she let her own stubbornness be more important to her than me, that she didn't for one second take my feelings into consideration.

So I say what I know will be the final nail in her coffin.

I use her own words against her.

I cut deep.

"I realized everything you told me was right," I say, trying to keep the knot in my throat from leaking into my voice. And I look right into her bright green eyes. "I should have more respect for myself. I should have the same level of respect for myself that you have for me, which is a lot, right?"

"Right," she murmurs, voice breathy. And then her whole body twitches, jumping into action. "I have to go."

"You just got home."

"I know," she says in a rush, flying back to the front door and throwing her coat on. "I know, but I just remembered I forgot something at the gallery. I'll be back later."

She might be telling the truth.

She might be going to see Patrick.

Or she might just need some fresh air.

But I don't really care. Not at the moment. So I watch her go, and then I change into my pajamas, grab my untouched Rocky Road from the freezer, and settle into the couch for a long night of moping.

Bridge continues to ignore me for the rest of the week. I continue to spew, almost reveling in it, because in all the fuming, I've forgotten my fear. And the deadline to own up to my relationship with Ollie is pretty much here, so I'm keeping her little secret in my back pocket, just in case she reacts the way I think she might-really, really pissed off.

"Oh, Skye," a voice whispers playfully into my ear. "Wake up."

I groan. "Five more minutes."

"Skye," he sings softly, pressing his lips against the bare skin of my shoulder once, twice, three times.

"Okay, you have my attention," I murmur, opening my eyes.

Ollie's turquoise irises fill my entire vision, sparkling like the sea on a sunny day, full to the brim with anticipation. "Good, now get up."

"Why?" I whine lightheartedly, snuggling under the covers even more. "It's finally Saturday."

But Ollie won't have any of it. Instead, he rolls over. The mattress bounces beneath me as he springs over the edge, jumping into an upright position and landing smoothly on his feet. I cocoon myself with the sheets, but it's too late. His hands are already reaching for me, pulling on my burrito-rolled covers, unwrapping me like a present.

"I have a surprise, come on," he says.

I pause in my fight to hold on to the sheets. "A surprise?"

"Remember when I told you my boss gave me a free day off?"

I nod eagerly.

"Well, today's the day, so there's no time to waste."

I bolt upright. "The whole day?"

Ollie grins. "The whole day. So I figured, I'd surprise you with a little date that I planned to get you in a really good mood, so by the time we come home tonight, you'll be ready to tell Bridge the truth."

I fall dramatically back against the pillows. "Ugh, is that tonight?"

Ollie's chipper mood rapidly plummets. "Yes, it's tonight, and you're not getting out of it again. You already got an extra week, and I can't stand lying anymore."

I sigh. But then I remember my secret weapon against Bridge-the whole you're dating my ex-boyfriend thing-and the hesitation totally vanishes. Because I'm ready to finally have the inevitable confrontation with her, I'm ready to get everything out once and for all, and when I look at Ollie, I think maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to really believe in us too.

"Okay," I agree, to Ollie's utter surprise.

"Okay?" he asks, as though afraid for a moment that an alien has taken over my mind and is now in control of my body, putting words in my mouth.

So I lean over, kissing his slightly parted lips before pulling back. "Okay."

"Okay." Ollie grins my favorite lopsided, single dimple grin. And I can't help but smile too because the way he said okay made it sound like the most perfect word in the entire world, like okay suddenly surpassed wonderful, stupendous, amazing, magnificent, superb, incredible, like okay was all of his dreams coming true.

And maybe it is.

Maybe for once in my life I'm finally doing things right.

But let's not get too hasty-one step at a time. Which is why I run over to my room and get dressed, trying to just go with the flow, trying for once to keep my mind from jumping ten steps ahead of where it needs to be.

"Where are we going?" I ask as Ollie locks the apartment behind us and slips his arm around my waist. But I freeze for a second, unable to stop my eyes from flicking around the hallway, searching for Bridge.

He sighs, letting me go. "Don't worry, not anywhere she'll see us."